


Some scars run deeper than others

by TheIcyQueen



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gift Fic, Kingdom Hearts III Spoilers, Post-Kingdom Hearts III, Scars, are we still taggin kh3 spoilers???????, i guess we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen
Summary: Ienzo was easier to read than a child’s primer, his feelings laid bare and raw and open, even when he hid behind his hair. And as he lay in bed just then, staring towards nothing in particular, it was obvious that he was miserable.Even and Ienzo have some healing to do. But they just might find that some of the injuries they've sustained aren't physical at all.





	Some scars run deeper than others

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot was 900% inspired by the art of tumblr user ohhicas (SPECIFICALLY this beautiful comic https://ohhicas.tumblr.com/post/184727913948/theres-just-so-much-dad-here). If you haven't checked out ohhicas's work, you really, really should. For realzies, no foolin. Recompleted Apprentices? Scars that reflect how their Nobodies were destroyed? Science Family????? Y'all KNOW I'm down to clown with that ;)

“This is what I’ve been _warning_ you about, you know. Precisely this. Of anyone, I would expect _you_ to understand what happens when one overworks oneself. And yes, yes, you don’t even have to open your mouth, I can see it in your eyes—I will _admit_ that it has certainly been a considerable amount of time since we’ve had immune systems to concern ourselves with, but all the _same_ —”

It had always been a trial and a half to try and decipher Zexion’s facial expressions; each one had always been so carefully crafted and calculated, a perfect mask for whosoever bore witness to it. Ienzo, on the other hand, was easier to read than a child’s primer, his feelings laid bare and raw and open, even when he hid behind his hair. And as he lay in bed just then, staring towards nothing in particular, it was obvious that he was _miserable_.

“Sit up for a moment, let me check you over.” The steadiness of his own voice surprised him. Wasn’t this what he’d been trying so desperately to avoid since recompletion? What they’d _both_ been avoiding?

Even could still remember that first moment, his muscles tight and gut tighter as he’d crossed the threshold. He’d been bowled over by the singular sensation that time had at once frozen solid and turned back, filling him with dizzingly incongruous images. There they were—all of them—standing as they always had, the Guards in their blues and the scientists in their whites, only none of them were the same at all. They were older, their postures reflecting the weight they’d been burdened with. It was as though nothing and everything had changed. These were strangers, but they were his family.

The Guards had eyed him warily, as was their wont. They were tired, though, and so their suspicions were soon forgotten. Too much had happened between them. Familiarity had won out, in the end.

Ansem hadn’t flinched. He had simply welcomed him back into the fold as though mere minutes had passed since last they’d spoken, as though Even had merely gone away to retrieve something from the library and only then returned. It had been Ansem he’d been _most_ worried about, most concerned about approaching, so the relief that had accompanied that acknowledging nod had been indescribable.

At least until he’d noticed Ienzo.

Ienzo, who no longer needed to roll the sleeves of his labcoat. Ienzo, who no longer needed to stand on a stack of books to see over the tables. Ienzo, whose fingers were no longer stained a perpetual sticky blue from ice cream bars he couldn’t finish quickly enough.

Ienzo, who couldn’t control his face with a fraction of Zexion’s prowess.

Yes, he’d been _most_ concerned about Ansem, but he’d realized then that it _should have been_ Ienzo.

But that was _then_ , and this was _now_ , and _now_ found them in the same room together without anyone else to serve as a buffer. There would be no wriggling out of _this_.

“You very nearly gave Aeleus a heart attack with that stunt, do you realize that? And I’m _hardly_ being hyperbolic—we have no _idea_ what our hearts can and cannot handle yet, and _won’t_ until the proper tests can be carried out. The _panic_ he was in when he brought you here…”

The bed creaked as Ienzo slowly pushed himself up onto his arms, making the shaky transition into an upright position. There was a waxiness to his skin that Even didn’t much like, making the dark shadows under his eyes all the more noticeable. He seemed to _radiate_ the warm discomfort of illness. Or perhaps that was something else, something more akin to the heat of a furious swarm of bees trying to cook an intruder to death. There was no _baseline_ for him to compare it to, no midpoint, no control group. Even had never _seen_ Ienzo angry…not _this_ Ienzo, at least.

These were untested waters.

“If you suspected you were ill, you should’ve spoken up. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, and all that. You should _know_ that. Honestly, I’m not sure what you _expected_ , given the hours you keep. Do you think I’m not aware of that? Hmm? Aeleus _insisted_ to me that you’re always the last asleep, and I know personally that you’re always the first awake. You’re a _human_ , boy. In case you’ve forgotten in all this time, humans require _sleep_. Food, too. Water. If that’s too difficult for you, think of yourself as a particularly intelligent plant that occasionally needs to be placed in a dark room.”

Even _had_ warned him as much. They _all_ had, really. Though he only had his own experience to go off of, if the others’ stories were true (and he suspected they were), then Ienzo had barely stopped moving since his own recompletion. Always _somewhere_ doing _something_ , one hand typing into that ridiculous gummi device of his, the other flipping through old research notes or pecking access codes into a terminal. Moving—always _moving_. Talking without stopping to breathe, working without stopping to eat, explaining and researching and mending and typing and writing and rebuilding. It had only been a matter of time.

The child had _always_ been that way. A blur. A small, sickly blur that had worried him to no end.

“Don’t think that just because you were able to do it _then_ means you can do it _now_. These bodies are significantly more delicate than what we’ve grown accustomed to—” His intention had been to check Ienzo’s pulse. He didn’t quite get that far.

Sick as he appeared to be, Ienzo’s hand had shot up with a suddenness that felt more instinctual than intentional, effectively smacking Even’s fingers away from his throat. The moment was quick, gone in a blink, but hung between them like a thick fog, turning the air heavy and grey. His movement had been _too_ quick. Jerky, even. _Significant_.

Slowly, Even pulled his own hand back, paying careful attention to the way Ienzo’s curled fingers continued to float just under his ear. As though attempting to block a strike. Or worse. He felt himself fall uncharacteristically silent, the tangle of intestines in his lower stomach knotting themselves into a shape heavy with suspicion. All at once, he thought he almost understood. He hoped he was wrong. “It occurs to me,” he began again, lowering his hand to his side, “That I never thought to ask how your time in Oblivion ended.”

Please… _please_ let him be wrong.

There was no hint of Zexion in Ienzo’s face when he finally turned to look at him, and wasn’t _that_ bizarre? How could that have _been?_ The faces themselves were the same, made of the same parts, the same pieces, the same colors and shapes, contours and angles. His body had been recompleted, yes, but shouldn’t that have been a purely _internal_ affair? How was it that he managed to look less like the Nobody he’d been mere _weeks_ ago, and more like the child he’d been more than a _decade_ ago?

Did people think the same about _him?_ Aeleus? Dilan? Were they _all_ walking around the Garden as their own doppelgangers? The idea was monstrous.

“Poorly.” Ienzo’s voice was an exhausted croak, too nasally to _not_ reflect some sort of infection. He watched him for a moment longer before adding, “I know how _yours_ ended, though.”

His skin throbbed at the accusation, sending a dull ache shooting from the back of his neck to the hollows of his knees. Not for the first time since waking, he was thankful for how long the labcoats were, how high the ascots were. “I suppose you would. Nothing ever _did_ transpire in that place that you weren’t _immediately_ aware of.”

“I’m not sure I would go so far as to say _nothing_.” The rasp of Ienzo’s voice was bad enough, but then he shifted—only just slightly—and Even got his first glimpse of what he was hiding under his collar. What was that saying about apples falling from trees?

The mark was…a lot.

It was a lot.

The glance he was afforded didn’t last long, but Even saw what needed to be seen. Around Ienzo’s throat, the skin had gone the terrible purple-black of a bruise. It sat below his adam’s apple, an unpleasantly thick band that called to mind a noose’s shadow. Through some divine luck or sick irony (he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to puzzle out which), it was situated _just_ where his ascot could hide it from prying eyes.

Ienzo shifted again, lifting the collar of his shirt to cover it once more.

No stranger to scars, it shouldn’t have caught him as off-guard as it did. It wasn’t the _image_ of the thing that troubled him, he thought; the problem was what the mark _meant_. The gravity of its placement, its shape…somehow all made worse by how neatly Ienzo was able to hide it away and act as though wasn’t there.

His tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth, a stupid slug without purpose. He cleared his throat once, twice, finding his voice only then. “Who?”

A soft sound escaped Ienzo at that. Had it been meant as a sigh? A laugh? A derisive little scoff? It was hard to say. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards into something that was decidedly not a smile. “The answer to _that_ question is a bit more complicated than I think you expect it to be.” Ienzo’s eyes narrowed in thought, and he nodded to himself, inwardly convincing himself of _something_. “I don’t think I owe you any explanation, actually.”

In a past life, his response would’ve been _immediate_. ‘And what, precisely, does _that_ mean?!’ he might’ve snapped.

But this was the wrong castle. It was the wrong world. He was wearing the wrong color. They were the wrong people.

So he remained silent, unable to look away from Ienzo’s bright, feverish eyes. Something in his expression seemed to suggest he was waiting for the sharp crack of Even’s response. If that was the case, Even would just have to disappoint him. Again.

Ienzo looked away after what felt to be an eternity, fingers still absently fixing the shape of his collar. “No,” he said, voice nearly too weak to be heard, “I think _you’re_ the one who owes an explanation or two.”

How quickly he was transported back to that first moment again, that first time seeing them all together, recompleted humans in the old laboratory they had once called home. The look on Ienzo’s face had been so _alien_ to him then, such an unfamiliar combination of things: shock, confusion, indignation, _hurt_. It had driven through him with twice the agony of Axel’s chakram, that look.

And here it was again, tempered with a healthy dose of anger, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“You don’t get to sit here and lecture _me_ on unhealthy habits. Not when you’re right there, keeping pace with me. _I_ don’t sleep enough? _I_ don’t take care of myself? Have you looked at yourself lately, Even?” He shook his head, his hair falling back into its usual place. “Don’t…don’t _look_ at me like that and treat me like some tiny thing made of glass. You have…absolutely _no right_.”

He swallowed down the words that leapt to his throat.

“I know you think you’re this…” Ienzo gestured weakly with one of his hands, fingers twirling in the air as he struggled to find his words through the heat of his fever. “ _Paragon_ of logic and rationality, so why do you _continue_ to underestimate my ability?”

“Ienzo, no one is underesti—”

“Do you think I don’t see it, Even? Do you think I _can’t_ see it? You tiptoe around these things, about what happened in Oblivion. Do you honestly want me to believe it’s for _my_ benefit? That it has _nothing_ to do with the way you walk around like you don’t fit inside your own skin anymore?” His tone took on an edge, sharp enough to startle, yet strangely not enough to cut. “I _know_ , Even. I _know_ what happened and who did it. I _know_ why you’re always covering your skin. I _see_ whom you avoid in the hallways, I _hear_ how your voice changes, so no. No, I’m not going to sit here and allow you to act as though _this_ —” his hand moved to the front of his throat, “—is somehow worse or more gruesome than whatever _you’re_ hiding.”

It would’ve been dramatic to say that the strength went from out of his knees; he didn’t crumple, nor did he fall, instead slowly lowering himself from his lean to sit on the very edge of the bed. He’d been on the receiving end of more than a few admonishments from Zexion—this wasn’t that. Still, he was immensely grateful that Ienzo was looking elsewhere. Even didn’t think he’d be able to say _anything_ , if those _knowing_ eyes were focused on him. “Is this _truly_ about scars, Ienzo?”

His profile changed at that, the bridge of his nose scrunching into what might’ve been meant to be a scowl or sneeze. Again, the resemblance to the boy he’d once been was intense, crashing over Even in a bracing wave of déjà vu.

“If you _honestly_ want to discuss scars, then—”

“You had an out! You could’ve stayed with them, you could’ve stayed _Vexen!_ Do you understand that? You could’ve kept your powers! Your research! Your…your…your damned _clout!_ But you _didn’t_. You didn’t. You gave it all up to come crawling back to _us_ , here in this broken world, in a broken body.” A flush had begun creeping up Ienzo’s chest to his neck, the first sign of angry color blooming in the hollows of his cheeks. “What was the _logic_ there, Even? What was the _rationale?_ Where did all that scientific thinking go? You traded it all for what? For _this?_ For all of this?” He waved his arms haphazardly, bringing attention to the decrepit bedroom with its dust and corner-cobwebs. “What were you _thinking?_ ”

He took a deep, steadying breath, casting his own eyes down to his hands. Absently, he tugged at the cuffs of his labcoat’s sleeves, doing what he could to cover the ripples of burnt flesh on his wrists. “I had my reasons.”

That time, Ienzo’s noise was easy enough to distinguish. The laugh tore out of him like a cough, sounding gratingly painful. “Right. You’re positively _inscrutable_ , aren’t you? So many plans, Even. So many quote-unquote _reasons_ driving your motivations—”

“And if you had been in my place?” He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Would _you_ have stayed with them, Ienzo? Would _you_ have remained Zexion?”

Ienzo didn’t meet his eyes, instead looking at some unknown spot on the wall, the intensity of his stare such that Even was surprised the wallpaper didn’t begin smoldering on contact. “I could’ve,” he said, his voice the low, unyielding insistence of a petulant child.

“But _would_ you have done it?”

Silence. Cool, calculated silence. Ienzo’s eyes were unreadable, but his mouth had tucked itself into a taut line, turned down at the corners. It was answer enough.

Even let out a quiet breath, shaking his head as he laid a hand on Ienzo’s shoulder, applying pressure enough to get him to lie back down onto the mattress. “No. You wouldn’t have.”

His eyes _did_ flick to him then, glassy and over-bright with fever and heartsickness. “What makes you _so_ certain of that?”

Now _that_ was a question for which he had an answer. He stood from the side of the bed, hardly aware of the dry squeak of the bedframe protesting the shifting weight. In three steps he crossed the room, adjusting the blinds to block the afternoon light. The room grew dim—not _dark_ —feeling immediately cooler. “Because it’s not who I raised you to be.”

It seemed Ienzo had finally run out of words. He stared up to the ceiling, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He managed to track Even’s progress through the room in his periphery, using what was left of his energy to reach over and snatch up a sliver of his labcoat with his fingers before he could leave. Only then did he let his eyes close fully, the promise of sleep already tugging at the corners of his consciousness. A sliver of his tongue poked out to wet his chapped lower lip, and when he swallowed, his throat felt to be made of sandpaper. “You _left_.” A deep breath in. “You were _right there_ with us. And then one morning, we go to check on you and you’re just… _gone_. You were just _gone_ , Even. What were we supposed to do with that? What was _I_ supposed to do?”

He looked down to the fingers pinching the fabric of his cloak, the new thing in his chest giving a painful lurch as he remembered how _small_ that hand used to be. Even opened his mouth, unsure that he would be able to say much of _anything._ “I had to make things right.”

“You _left_ us.”

“I did,” he admitted. “But look what you all accomplished in my absen—”

“You left _me_.”

That one was harder. He _knew_ he didn’t have the words for that, though, knew it was beyond anything he could convey with simple syllables. How to even _begin?_ Even reached down and gingerly removed Ienzo’s fingers from his coat, sandwiching his hand, instead, between his own as he sat himself on the edge of the bed once more. “I did. But…I will _never_ do that again. You have my word on that.”


End file.
